Leaves
by AuroraExecution
Summary: -"Leaves are wings that don't know how to fly." H/D. Character death.


**Notes: **Betaed by tigersilver, otherwise known as the Lady of Awesome. Also, I wanted to thank all of the lovely people who have been so supportive of my fic-writing so far. The style was somewhat inspired by xErised's stuff. Finally, I wrote this fic while listening to the song "Leaves" by A Sang, which you can find on youtube. The first line of the song is where I got the quote at the end.

8/2/2010 EDIT: Formatting fixed.

* * *

**Leaves**

It isn't raining.

He thought—

(But he was wrong, obviously.)

Isn't it always supposed to rain when you hurt this much?

Shouldn't the sky be grieving with him?

It isn't fair that the rest of the world should be _happy_, not on a day like this. No one ought to be happy, if he can't be.

Above, the sun smiles tauntingly, saturating the already-bright spring hues into blinding color.

* * *

He's going home.

It's getting late, and his sight is dimming down with the last of the sunlight. The only thing he can think of is a view of the plain wooden door, brass doorknob shiny with use, threshold nicked from people tripping over it. If he concentrates hard enough on the image of the door, he can find it, even if he's losing his sight.

There will be a fire there, and some comfortable chairs, and for once he'll let himself be vulnerable.

_And just maybe…_

But he always knew he was too much of an optimist.

They never were that vulnerable with each other.

_

* * *

_

_I'm not going to cry_.

He'll just sit in the chair, with no lights, feeling miserable and drinking himself into a terribly clichéd oblivion. Merlin, how he hates being so uncreative about dealing with his issues, but it's the only thing he _wants_ to do.

There isn't a choice—he absolutely _has_ to be drunk. Has to be, or he'll _think_, and he has no doubts that thinking will be a bad idea.

Thinking would remind him, and taunt him, jeering, of all the problems they'd had. He'd question his actions; he'd feel things he didn't want to feel—he'd have _regrets_, and only fools did _that_. If he were sober, that would mean it was _real_, and he wouldn't be talented enough to convince himself otherwise.

Because he would—

_No, no, no, no. _

He would know he'd been lying all along.

* * *

There it is.

His _home_. His warm, warm home, filled with his warm, warm lover—

(The warmth is just his imagination.)

It isn't how he'd imagined it. The lights are out, and there isn't a single fire going. He almost doesn't find his lover—never mind his temperature now—but he concentrates hard enough to feel his way there.

Someone else is there too.

A strange man he's never seen before. His warm, warm lover is entwined drunkenly around some half-dressed stranger.

The world blazes fiery white, but his fingers can't touch them.

* * *

It isn't what he wanted.

He thought maybe he was drunk enough to do it, to prove to himself it doesn't matter. The man clambers into his lap and touches him in all the right—wrong—right places, and for a few instants, he thinks it's exactly what he's been searching for.

(But it's not _him_.)

The fingers on his thigh and in his hair, the too-soft mouth against his earlobe—

_Wrong, wrong. _

He shoves the strange man away.

_Get out, get out, get out_.

And everything is silent.

(It doesn't hurt, it doesn't…)

_

* * *

_

_Did you forget me? _

His ethereal heart judders upward, until it catches in his throat. He can't, _can't_ be forgotten. Not by this man alone, when everyone else remembers him.

But suddenly his lover's eyes widen into sobriety, and he's pushing the stranger away, screaming a jumble of _no, no, I don't want you to take his place, get out, get out, get out_. The offended man snarls, curses and insults mingling unpleasantly, as he flees this cold place without light.

And then there is silence.

His cold, cold lover lies on the bed, not moving, not talking, not crying.

Just laying there—

(No, no, keep your eyes open or you'll freeze to death.)

Like he's dead.

* * *

It wasn't enough.

He's never, ever going to stop falling down the self-destructive hole he's created.

_You let go of me—_

Why should he even want it back? The relationship (or was it one, really?) had been superficial, and they'd both known it. It was every bad thing they had ever been: immature, argumentative, hurtful…insubstantial. All they had ever shared was an awkward mixture of unhealthy behavior.

Picking fights over everything just to scream at each other (and have something to talk about).

Purposely trying to hurt each other (because jealousy was the only thing they'd let themselves show).

Refusing, the both of them, to show any affection (both well aware they'd only be hurt all the more).

_So why can't I let go of you?_

* * *

He can't help but reach out.

The man he'd called a lover, who had been more enemy than lover—it's only now that he realizes how much he's overlooked. How much they've both overlooked.

He'd never thought about how kindly his lover had touched him, or the way, on nights he dreamed of dark things, someone had always held him strangle-tight and whispered desperate pleas (_don't go, don't go, don't go_) in his ear. He'd forgotten about the rare, warm kisses and the glimpses of choked emotions hidden away in his lover's eyes.

Even now, his insubstantial fingers remember the sharp line of that pale chin, and his faded lips can still feel bright, smooth strands of hair. He'd always thought of it as the color of fool's gold, with the same seductive lure.

_It was always real gold, you fool_.

He knows it now.

But that, really, is what makes him such a fool to begin with.

_

* * *

_

_I'm not going to cry_.

Ever since he was a child, whenever he's wanted to make something true, he'd repeat it over and over until it really did happen.

_I'm not going to cry, no, no, no_.

But he can't stop thinking, and drinking didn't help, and fucking around didn't help, and it really, really, really hurts.

He has to admit it now (and this was why he'd wanted to be drunk)—he's always been lying to everyone. To his lover. To himself.

_I wish I hadn't been so afraid_.

It's circling and circling and circling 'round his head. He keeps thinking that maybe, just maybe, they could have had a little bit of happiness together, because, damn it all, even if he doesn't want to admit it, they'd felt things they were never open enough to voice.

He'd always thought, somewhere in his subconscious, that someday, when they were older and mellower, when he wasn't so terrified of being in pain, one day he would say it. He'd finally find enough courage to admit aloud that it wasn't just a desire for titillating arguments and heated, angry lust. That he was tired of screaming.

Maybe it would have hurt less—

(But now he'll never know.)

Maybe, if he'd only said then what he'd wanted to all along.

* * *

It makes him want to forgive everything.

After all, he's never seen his lover like this before, with rivers of tears flooding his face, throwing things at the wall and screaming, screaming: _I love you, you bloody fucking git. _

Somehow, he's known it all along.

He watches for a while, ghostly body unable to move, until his poor, poor lover crumbles into the bed, mouth swollen and sticky with tears, whispering: _Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry_.

It shocks him, how much he wants to reply.

_Draco. _

He tries out the new word, and it's sweet in his mouth, and it breaks his heart that Draco will never hear him say it.

_Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco_, he repeats helplessly, wishing, wishing, regretting.

* * *

His face is damp.

It's been such a long time since he's cried. For so long, he'd refused to let himself be so weak, except now he just _can't_, not anymore, not when all the facades he'd so carefully built are melting away around him. Not when he's finally admitted to everything he's kept hidden. Not when the person he's realized he actually did love is gone. Not when he's pretended for years and years and years, and he doesn't want to any longer.

_Harry, Harry, I love you, you stupid prick, I love you_.

He repeats the words, because they make him feel safe, and he wishes Harry could be here, just for a moment, to hear him. He'd do anything to have that chance—even open himself to Harry's rejection. He's frightening himself just a little; it's not normal for him to lose complete control of his emotions, and the regret is overpowering him—

_Harry, Harry, can you hear this, you selfish bugger? _

It hurts, how much he's wishing, and he's never wished harder for anything in his life, especially not something so impossible.

(Don't go, don't go, don't go, I don't want to be alone.)

_You have to come back, you have to_.

* * *

It's not that he can't hear, but that there's nothing he can do.

Even when he tries to wrap Draco in his incorporeal embrace, he's simply not solid enough. It's the loneliest thing he's ever seen: himself, with half-invisible arms passing right through Draco's exhausted form.

So Harry settles for hovering by the bed and whispering Draco's name, as if repeating it will make it more likely that Draco will hear him. Thinking, if he can't do anything else in this form, he can at least watch over the person he loves, just this once.

Draco shouts out Harry's name in his sleep, and hearing it while knowing he can't stay forever and hold Draco the way Draco once held him…it makes Harry tiredly sad.

_Thank you, thank you, for saving me from the nightmares. _

His time is running out, and he needs to do something, so that they can both stop regretting so much.

Once Harry finishes his work, he comes back to the bedroom. Draco is still sleeping, and Harry allows himself one last glimpse—

(His beautiful, beautiful lover.)

One last glimpse, and then he lays ghostly kisses on Draco's sleep-parted lips, and he almost wants to try to stay. But he feels the ghostly form wearing away, and his vision is fading, and his hearing is distorting. He wants so much to stay here, and make up for all the things they've done wrong.

_Draco, Draco_—

He doesn't get a chance to try again before he fades out.

* * *

The bathroom is steamy as Draco steps out of the shower in the morning. He ties a towel around his waist (not that anyone is there to care anymore) and makes his way over to the door.

When he passes the sink, he looks up, and for a moment the world doesn't move.

_Draco_, is written on the mirror in the steam.

_Thank you for holding me when I needed it most_.

Draco's heart is stabbing his chest into slivers, and he realizes he's not breathing. He takes in large gasps of air as he stares stupidly at the words on the mirror.

_I wanted you to hear me say your name, but my voice doesn't work anymore, so this will have to do_.

His stupid eyes are hot again, and he doesn't want to cry anymore, but—

_Draco. Draco. I love you_.

But, he sees the familiar crooked handwriting, and the words he never thought Harry would say to him, and the whole thing is what he's always wanted, except it wasn't supposed to be a last letter like this.

(It's too late, it's too late, but at least they have this.)

And when he reaches the bottom, and sees the signature—

_I've always been_

_Your, _

_Harry_

He feels like he will never stop crying again.

_

* * *

_

_"Leaves…are wings that don't know how to fly."_


End file.
